Doctor Strange and the Cloak
by TapTapAlways
Summary: Even after the death of the Ancient one, and Doctor Strange's own death several times over in the dark dimension, life must go on. Doctor Strange have many things to bear, but one of the things his shoulders must carry is not heavy at all. A story about the friendship between Stephen Strange and his cloak, with some introspection tossed in as well.


Doctor Strange, Master and Guardian of the New York Sanctum, was tired. It was not regret over all that he had done in the brief war, nor was it his experience in the Dark dimension, which while draining as it had been, and painful, did not haunt him half as much as it could have done. Everything considered, he had done all he could and he could not regret it. Such considerations, and determinations aside, though, he was now left picking up the pieces after what had been terrible events, including the death of the Ancient one.

The World of Sorcerers, though somewhat depleted now, had never been a large community, and with his actions after the last Supreme Sorcerer's death, those there were, still alive and standing together, were looking largely to him. If not for guidance, so for leadership. This left him in essence to carry the old mantel of hers, even though with not a thousandth of her insight or experience. One year, to her countless wisdom. The responsibility fell heavily upon his shoulders.

He knew enough, he supposed, to do well enough for now, and there was both Wong, other masters and many books to guide him on. It was not, either way, in his nature to fall flat. He was stubborn and curious, and he would do well, because of it. There was not much choice, anyway, not for him. Perhaps she was correct, that he was indeed terrified of failure, but he did not feel terrified, only determined. He'd grow into this, like he'd grown into sorcery.

He understood now, too, what she had tried to do, the Ancient one. By not telling her pupils everything, she had not attempted to hide anything away but merely to shelter, to keep them all safe from heavy burdens they need not carry and too painful insights which she bore alone. She'd learnt the hard way, he understood that, and she had sought only to protect them from the same harsh road. She'd said she'd hated drawing power from the dark dimension, and he believed her.

He had guessed at the fringes of it, of a much deeper story, from the beginning, but had not managed to piece it together fully in time to keep Mordu with them. In time to take her side or explain. She was not what they thought, no, but merely more complex. It seemed like he was a bit more complex too, just like she had said, for he had never been as outraged as Mordu obviously was, and would likely always be, to walk away like that. Suspicious, yes, he had been that, but he did not judge before he knew all. He confronted, but he was ready to hear more before he declared her a traitor to her own teachings. At least, that was a good quality of his. His want of evidence. He had used to be quite arrogant, that was for sure. Surely, he still was, only not so self-obsessed.

As he sighed, he felt another weight settle more firmly around his shoulders, his wise cloak curling up around his neck like a content cat or a large python. "Are you a cat or are you a cloak?" he asked it idly in the fond tone he increasingly found himself using at its antics, stroking a stretch of the hem within easy reach. He swore that if it could, it would have purred in content.

It seemed to like being close, liked protecting him, soaking up his warmth as well as keeping him warm. It was snug, somehow, almost comforting. He liked its companionship and the comfort it offered in quiet moments. When he was being attacked, he liked it even more!

Continuing the slow stroking of a hand down the cloak, Stephen ran his dominant hand over the page of the open book, finding his place again. In a world so different from the world he had lived in only a year ago, secure in his false knowledge of it being the only one, it ought not surprise him that one of his best friends was a cloak. He supposed, raising his eyes from the book he did not read anyway, and watched the cloak, twisting itself around his right arm like a boa constrictor, that he did not really feel any surprise.

"You know, if you hadn't already saved my life more times than my ego would like to admit, that would make me somewhat nervous" he told it with a slight smile, caressing the soft fabric yet another time. It had become a habit of his.

His hands did not hurt him, but they were sore sometimes, and the cloak, though it looked (and was) sturdy, was velvety smooth and very soft. The touch was soothing, and the cloak seemed to enjoy it as well. The himself from a year ago would have sent him to get psychiatric treatment for that thought for _sure_.

Then again, that old version of himself had been arrogant and so blind. He did not think that he'd like himself now, if they'd met at one of those many talks. Sometimes he wondered if Christine liked this new him better. If they had a chance. Well, it was not as if he wasn't busy. She was still the kind that cared, very much. She would ask for him, try to find where he was, or merely tell him to stay after one of his random appearances, when she was ready.

The cloak curled more tightly around him, but in the weeks which had passed since he had first... was met it the right expression? In those weeks, he had learnt the feeling well enough to know that the cloak was, for lack of a better term, cuddling him, not restraining. He trusted it without reservation, and so it did not trouble him. It was a testament of how much he had changed along with his life, that he did not question the fact that he trusted a piece of clothing. The cloak was his companion, not his garment.

He sat staring into the roaring fire for some time, book resting open but forgotten in his lap, the cloak allowing it space, having learnt (and wasn't that an amusing thought to entertain) easily and quickly how he didn't like his literature tampered with. It had picked it up about as soon as he realised his new cloak liked to be petted - but only by his hands. Other, steadier hands were snapped away by the folds of the fabric if they tried.

It was their habit to sit like this, in the evenings in the New York Sanctum. Sometimes he cried, thinking of everything he had left behind and lost. Suprisingly, mostly to the shards of his old self still remaining, he did not miss his reputation or those talks, which all seemed so boring to him now.

He would not deny being a bit of a show-off occasionally, needing an audience at times, but there were new people, who meant much more to him, who respected him deeply, with who he had won higher renown. He treasured that higher than he had ever used to, back in his old life. When he was Doctor Stephen Strange, neurosurgeon. As Master Doctor Stephen Strange, neurosurgeon, master and chosen by the Ancient one, the nearest they had to a Sorcerer Supreme, he could no longer quite value something so shallow. Not that he wasn't occasionally a bit shallow. He did not regret that either.

When he did cry, the cloak caressed his cheekbones, wiping the tears off, just like it had done when he cried outside the operation theatre at the hospital, after having his last ever talk with the woman who taught him everything. Well, one of the women who taught him everything, he corrected himself, thinking of Christine.

Suddenly, he was literally pulled from his thoughts by the cloak, which was gently tugging at him. He heard the sound too, now that it had awakened him from his daydreaming. Streadying him as he rose, the cloak settled in its favourite position, hanging from his shoulders in its rightful spot, as he walked into the next room.

After passing through the doorway quickly, Doctor and Master Stephen Strange reached out one of his shaking hands to a sideboard looking like it was made in the early years of the Ancient one, and picked up his state-of-the-art cellphone. He refused to acknowledge the nervous flutter of his heart as he read "Christine" as caller. He didn't hesitate to pick up.

"Stephen?" With a lack of anything more intelligent to say, all of his genius was reduced to a stupid "yes, I'm here". "Where is here, exactly? I... could I come over? Or, if you're far away, maybe... if it isn't a bad time". Stephen smiled. "I could pick you up, yes. If you wanted to. But I am in New York. Shall I text you the address?"

He could hear her smile in her voice, and the cloak came round to rest warm folds of fabric around the hand he wasn't using to hold the phone. "I'd like that" Christine replied, still sounding so much like she always did that he could picture her smile in detail.

Forty-two minutes later, when she stood on his doorstep - or the doorstep of the sanctum, whatever you preferred - her slightly-nervous slightly-eager smile was just how he had imagined it, his own cloak protectively draping itself close to his body in what he could only read as support.

"Come in" he said as he opened the door, stepping aside, the cloak moving slower as if checking Christine over, always so protective. "Thank you" Christine replied somewhat unsurely, stepping back into his life with this simple gesture and making it feel effortless. "I have missed you, Stephen".

 _I do not own Doctor Strange, and sadly I do not own the cloak either. I love the cloak._

 _This story is dedicated to Honestlydarkprincess: your support and constant willingness to endure endless talks about my writing means more to me than you will likely ever understand, Kotyonok._

 _TapTap_


End file.
